


Mercury, part 1/3

by theplatonicnonyeah



Series: Mercury [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Female Characters, Headaches & Migraines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:46:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplatonicnonyeah/pseuds/theplatonicnonyeah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part one of a 3-part series about female Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson. Their first meeting. All female cast!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercury, part 1/3

          It was a small thing.  
          A silvery speckle.  
          Right there, in the bottom left corner of her vision.  
          It could have been a reflection, a trick of the eye, but Sherlock knew what it meant.  
          She decided to ignore it and press on.

          There were other matters at hand, something bigger that seemed just out of reach. It had begun three days ago with a dead man in an alleyway just behind St Bart’s. His left hand was badly damaged, pink skin falling off it. Then a woman had made a call to Scotland Yard, more precisely to DI Gillian Lestrade, who in turn alerted Sherlock. There were hints of extortion, deceit, infidelity. Not usually the stuff to entice Sherlock out of her in-between-cases-inertia, but something had caught her eye. There was an underlying current of calculated cruelty, like a secret message meant only for her. She didn’t mention it to Lestrade, of course. Mostly because she wasn’t certain that her hunch was correct, not just yet, but also because it had reached into some hidden part of her that thrived on danger. She was flattered and intrigued.

          Sherlock was following a red coat, just a few metres in front of her, moving erratically through the busy afternoon streets of London. They had been walking in circles for what must be hours now, she noted. Like the petals of a rose, inwards. To the outside eye it must seem like haphazard meanderings, but to Sherlock it looked like a perfect pattern.

          The silvery spot was still there and it was beginning to annoy her. It had begun to grow, no longer a speckle, but more like a flowing liquid shape across her left field of vision. It was becoming harder to focus on the street and she accidentally bumped into people, making her even more vexed. Normally, she would move gracefully – almost feline – weaving in and out of the jostling pedestrian traffic, but the rhythm was deserting her. She could hear the distant ring of disharmony looming closer. The spot wasn’t going away. In fact, it was growing.  
          - Oh, go away! She snarled, earning an indignant huff from a passerby.  
          Sherlock was annoyed at this sudden inability to control her body. The liquid shape was now covering up half of the street in front of her, its shiny surface shattering into tiny shards of glass.  
          No, she thought, it is like mercury. Quivering drops of mercury scattered across the floor after you’ve dropped a thermometer, a kaleidoscope of liquid prisms dancing over her retina. The street was barely visible anymore, the red coat disappearing into the crowd.  
          - Bugger it!  
          She stopped abruptly, searching for something to steady herself against. A lamp post would do fine. This wasn’t good, not good at all. She needed to find her way back home quickly. It was useless and she hated to accept defeat, but her head wanted otherwise.

          Standing there with one hand resting against the lamp post, she tried to recap the last few hours of her pursuit. They had been moving in circles through familiar streets, so she was fairly certain which way was home, even though she could no longer read the street signs. In fact, moving her head too much made it feel like it was going to crack open. She lifted one hand and rubbed at her stupid left eye to try and relieve some of the tension inside her head.   
 _Across this street, then down the next one three blocks and then to the left. That should be it._

           She took a step forward. There was a screeching noise, followed by an angry honk of a car horn. Then a hand around her upper arm, yanking her backwards onto the pavement again.  
\- What in heaven’s name are you doing? The voice was gentle, yet steady and decisive. Sherlock could make out the shape of a much shorter woman, perhaps blond, wearing something non-descript in a bland colour. At the bottom of her now completely blurred field of vision, she was also able to distinguish a pair of flat leather lace-ups.  
\- I need to go home, Sherlock snapped.  
\- Yes, well, unless by home you mean somewhere up in the sky, I suggest you stop running out in the street like that. You almost got run over by a car! Didn’t you see it?  
\- No, I’m sorry, I have gone temporarily blind.  
There was a moment’s silence, in which Sherlock had the distinct feeling that the other woman was considering whether this last statement was a joke or not. The grip around her arm loosened slightly.  
\- I see, came the non-plussed reply. And how is that?  
\- I’m having a migraine attack and I can’t see. I need to go home.  
\- Oh, said the other woman and let go of her arm, apparently not quite sure what to make of that information.  
Sherlock sighed. What is it with people these days? Everything you say you have to repeat, because they’re either not listening or they’re plain stupid. She swirled around, intent on storming off, but that was a bad idea. A really bad idea, because a flash of light cut through her head like a sharp knife mercilessly driving its blade into the back of her eyes. She grabbed her head with both hands and probably whimpered, unintentionally, of course.  
\- Oh, hey, I’m sorry, the other woman said softly, laying a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. I can see you’re in pain. I...let me hail you a cab. Where do you need to go?  
\- 221 B Baker street.  
\- I’m Joan, by the way, the woman said.  
\- Sherlock.  
\- Here’s a cab now. I’ll help you in. Maybe...maybe I should just come with you, in case...I’ll come with you. It’s no bother.  
Sherlock didn’t really care one way or the other. Her head was beginning to spin at an alarming rate. Sound was becoming distorted and even the softest whisper would soon be a torturous metallic shriek. She climbed into the car and curled up in a foetal position in the back seat.  
\- Oi, what’s wrong with ‘er then? the cab driver yelled. I don’t want no-one bein’ sick in my car!  
\- It’s alright, she’s with me, I’m a doctor. Came the curt reply from Joan.  
A doctor, this unassuming woman was a doctor! Sherlock would have deduced it in a second had her visual sense been intact. And of course, those sensible shoes were a dead giveaway, she should have known. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and heard Joan’s gentle voice in her ear:  
\- How are you faring? Do you have any medication, something for your migraine?  
But Sherlock was already falling down the whirling vortex. Everything was spinning around and she tried to brace herself against the car’s movements through traffic.  
\- No, nothing, Sherlock replied in a monotone voice, which was probably too low for anyone to hear over the engine noise. She wanted darkness, silence. No more questions. Because why would it be logical to _not_ use drugs when all she wanted to do was drive rusty nails into her temples to make the world shut up?    
Shortly, the car came to a halt. They had arrived and Joan was helping her out of the car.  
\- We’re here, Joan said. Sherlock recognised the smell of her street with its little café getting ready for the evening onslaught of hungry commuters heading home after a long working week. Every street in London had its own sounds and smells. Sherlock could probably walk them blindfolded and still know where she was. They were all laid out in her head like a map. But now the grid was all jumbled up. She couldn’t connect the dots.  
\- Mrs Hudson, Sherlock mumbled.  
\- What was that?  
Joan had her arm around Sherlock’s waist. She smelled of...watermelons? It was a sweet smell, not overbearing, surprisingly so given Sherlock’s already too heightened senses.  
\- Mrs...Hudson...not home...keys...pocket, Sherlock managed to say, indicating the inner pocket of her jacket.  
\- Oh, alright. Joan carefully dug up the keys and unlocked the door. Somehow they got inside and managed to walk up the seventeen steps to the flat, Sherlock leaning heavily into the tiny frame of Joan.

          Inside.  
          Heavenly silence.  
          A lingering scent of something chemical, an experiment gone wrong, and the dry smell of dust.  
          Sherlock sank down into the sofa, guided by Joan’s steady hands cradling her head softly onto a pillow. She couldn’t bear to keep her eyes open anymore. Perhaps it would be better to just die, right now, so that the pain would be gone forever. She felt the cushion give way to her heavy head, then let go and fell into blissful sleepy darkness.

          When she awoke it was to the unfamiliar smell of...tea? No, tea didn’t smell unfamiliar. But the smell of tea here in her flat was...unexpected. She opened her eyes carefully, wary of any lingering symptoms. The first thing that came into focus was the worn-out green leather of the couch. She marvelled at the details of it, following a dry crack that trailed its way up the cushion in front of her, relieved she was indeed able to see again. Her head felt oddly light, almost empty.  
But the smell of tea, where was it coming from? The obvious answer, of course, would be the kitchen. Was that Mrs Hudson in there, clattering about with the dishes? Slowly, she turned over and took in the living room with all its clutter: the red carpet on the floor, now threadbare from decades of use, the leather chair with its metal casing, the Union jack pillow, the skull on the mantelpiece. Ah, trusty old friend! Then an unfamiliar figure appeared in the opening to the kitchen.  
\- Oh, you’re awake!  
Jane? No, Joan. That’s Joan, from the street, the woman who had stopped her from walking right into traffic and then got her into a cab back home. Joan, what a plain name. Well, she was quite plain, almost mousy in appearance. She wore her hair in a ponytail. Not very tidily, Sherlock noted. She must have been in a hurry this morning. Or working a long shift at the hospital. But she wasn’t in scrubs, her clothes were casual, not for work. Perhaps her day off then? No, there was something else...  
\- Feeling any better? Joan interrupted Sherlock’s train of thought.  
\- How long...  
\- About two hours. I took the liberty of doing some shopping while you were sleeping. You...didn’t have much of anything edible in your kitchen.  
\- Did you touch anything?  
\- No, I...  
\- Did you touch anything!? Sherlock jumped up and immediately regretted it as a razor sharp pain cut through her head again.  
\- Oh, hell! she threw her hands up and tried to hold her head together, because it suddenly felt as if it were about to split in two.  
\- You’d better sit down, Joan said. You’re still not well, it seems. Here, let me get you some water. When...when was the last time you drank...or ate...anything?  
Sherlock slumped down on the sofa.  
\- Er...not sure...I had some coffee...earlier today...Sherlock waved a hand dismissively in the air. What time is it? She looked up searching for the clock on the mantelpiece. Six thirty. Six in the afternoon? Yes, it was still light outside and she could hear the sound of the street outside.  
She had been in pursuit for what – four hours? – only stopping for coffee whenever the other person decided to rest. She couldn’t eat while on a case, too much distraction and she needed her body to be ready for action whenever possible. Food would only slow her down.  
Joan handed her a glass of water.  
\- I made myself some tea, but I’m not sure you should have any right now, what with your condition.Toast?  
Joan disappeared into the kitchen.  
\- Fine. Thanks, Sherlock replied slowly. Her mind was already buzzing, trying to work out where she had lost track of the red coat and how to regain her momentum of the chase, when quick steps running up the stair broke the silence.  
A short-haired woman in her 50’s appeared in the doorway. Sherlock rose slowly from the sofa.  
\- Yes?  
\- Another one.  
\- Where?  
\- Lauriston Gardens.

 


End file.
